


Under The Cloak Of Night

by IObse33



Category: Cars (Pixar Movies)
Genre: Hiding, Hurt/Comfort, New Friendship, Physical Therapy, Protection, Radiator Springs (Cars), Recovery, Therapy, Tragedy, crash, refugee camp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22780825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IObse33/pseuds/IObse33
Summary: Hudson is an esteemed racer and has many a time made his human owner more than proud. No one expected the wreck, but even more so, Hudson didn't expect to be left for dead.It is by pure luck that a trio of vehicles discovers him, taking him into a hidden refugee camp, preparing him to live a new life through recovery. And through this, he soon finds himself in a small town strung along Route 66, ran purely by cars and free of human authority.
Kudos: 10
Collections: Inequal





	1. Chapter 1

All he remembered was speeding through the world, tires cutting through dense sand, the minuscule pebbles kicking up against his undercarriage and chrome framing. The sea salt seemed to creep into his cab and dry his eyes as fast as he could blink. He was drifting around a turn, a technique his type of race car seemed to manage better than most others on the track with him. This time was different though, maybe he dug too deep into the sand, didn't right himself fast enough, he felt himself leaning, tipping, staring into the sand he was supposed to be dominating. 

The next thing he remembers is laying on the sand, trying to stand himself up and wondering, why is my wheel sideways? He couldn't source the coiling smoke laying thick upon his tongue. He remembered being stared at and surrounded by the humans that glared at him in disbelief and anger. He remembered seeing his owner, talking furiously, throwing his hands up, and then kicking him on his side. He was wearing pointed cowboy boots, and they stung like a bullet. 

The humans slowly dispersed, instead being replaced with a tow truck ran by another human. He's hooked up by his lower lip, his chrome bumper, and he mouths at the air, trying to dislodge it. Instead, he's dragged off the race track, and he stared out onto the sand, wishing he could keep racing, knowing he was fine. He stared out and noticed the cars, his few close acquaintances, staring back in terror and fear. As he was pulled through the exit, a shiny metal sign reflected his appearance, and he looked away immediately from the sight that greeted him. Instead, he stared out onto the sea, wishing he could be swept out where he is always on the move, always surrounded, always about to find some new journey on each new beach he drifts upon. 

-

Now he wakes up outside the track. It is silent. Everyone is gone. The civilian parking lot void of cars and humans, stuffed with drifting trash, fast food, and carnival food containers. The pens are silent for once, decorated with the paint of rebellious cars. He can't see inside the small, mostly wooden built stadium surrounding the beach race track, and he can't hear any noise from within. All that accompanies him is the droning of the ocean waves, unending. 

He's exhausted, he can barely focus on any one of his five senses. As far as he could tell the low motor was in time with the ocean waves soothing his ears. But it wasn't the ocean, it was another vehicle, a tow truck rusting at the crevices between body panels, and a few minutes later a Ford and Chevy Belair joined in. Only now did he open his eyes and notice the vehicles in front of him. The thoughts registering, he tried to right himself again, to greet the creatures respectably, and it was now the pain hit. 

Everything that was wrong slammed into him like a boulder on a house. He could feel his bumper dragging along the mixed sand and dirt ground, barely hanging onto his frame. He had a snapped axle, the front left. Looking into his singular rearview mirror he noticed the state of his body, crumpled like a paper ball tossed into the waste bucket, and he had been tossed away, abandoned as well. He wasn't quite sure what got harder, what stabbed and tore through him more, the physical pain suddenly come alive within him, or the realization of how his day had gone, and where he was now in life. Did he just give a groan?

The two cars nudged at him as the truck turned around, their chrome glints blinding him. They're speaking low, to him, to each other? He closes his eyes and wills the pain away, and he succeeds. 

-

He opens his eyes and the pain washes over him immediately, akin to a tsunami. He opens his eyes and realizes he's being towed again. The panic sets in and he thrashes and the pain stabs every party of him that moves, and then he succeeds and he's freed, the hook is gone. 

Slamming down onto the floor, unable to catch himself, he knocks himself out. 

-

This time he doesn't recognize the scenery, not that there is much of it. His vision blurs, and his mind is muddled, unable to form much coherent thought within himself. Only see. He couldn't feel either, numb to the world. Everything clears, and the walls are that of a tarp, like a ramshackle tent. Surrounding him are a multitude of medical machinery, some clearly wearing down, most smaller than the larger versions found in hospitals. The beeping and whines of the mechanics pierce his ears, and he thinks he flinches. 

He tries to move around, test body part by body part, and realizes yet again that he feels nothing, not even his own weight resting upon his wheels. 

A new sound fills the air, a low growl, his engine sparking into life to produce a calming purr. This proves more harmful, as his engine aches with soreness and almost a stiff sort of pain, and he hunkers down on himself with a throaty noise getting caught within his mouth. he can't control the purring, he wished it to stop, instead, the rumble grows louder, and the pain increases. How can he feel excruciating pain while numb everywhere else?

It is now that a vehicle enters the tent, a stout car recognizable as a dark warm brown Buick Special. 

Noticing the mustache shaped grill and cluttered bumper resembling teeth nearer the edges, as well as paired with the absolute sense of loss not knowing where one is, he did his best to glare and snarl, nearly trying to rise the sound of his engine further in intimidation, but the fear of pain from purring alone is enough to force him into submission as the Buick neared. 

The Buick halts a couple of feet from him. A simple conversation ensues.

"Good evening. I'm Kenneth." Kenneth’s voice was low yet lacking of a gravely undertone. 

"H-Hu" his voice is torn with gravel to the opposite but hints at once holding strength. 

"Hudson. Yes, we'll need your full name later on. Right now, how are you feeling?"

Hudson worked, trying to speak, getting half of the word engine out before simply tapping on the grassy ground two times. Four out of ten in pain. 

"Yes, purring is natural, but your engine is still, all of you, is still sore from unuse and adapting to new parts."

Hudson isn't listening, he's still trying to tap the ground further, trying to find any sensation from the impact. He's still looking around in confusion, trying to peek out of the partially closed flap to the tent. 

The Buick sighs. "You're safe here. No humans-" Hudson blinks, and focuses on Kenneth, calming at the words. That alone gets his engine to calm and silence. Kenneth continues. "This is a camp. We take in cars, on the run, abandoned, hurt. We've fixed you up best we could with what we have. Far as we can tell, you're practically good as new."

Hudson sighs, manages a nod and figures its some medicine leaving him unable to sense, perhaps pain that hasn't acclimated yet. He isn't quite sure he trusts the Buick before him, but he has no choice but to be grateful, and nothing at all is always preferable to searing harm. 

"That was a lot to take in, but you seem to be faring rather well compared to others we've taken in. You're extremely lucky to be alive Hudson. I'll leave you to process and rest."

The last word Hudson processed was lucky before already drifting off again. He barely saw the Buick reverse out of the tent. 

-

When he's first led out of the tent, Hudson is wobbly and frail on his wheels. It's also bright out, and he's terribly off schedule. He's adjusted to sleeping through the hustle and bustle of cars he heard outside the tent and waking peacefully at night, slowly regaining feeling throughout his body and being weaned off of pain medicine. 

The sun is horribly bright, sharper than neon signs cutting through the night. It causes his head to pound, and the headache forms fast, though it is still light in its pain. The camp is in an open prairie, no trees or buildings seen on the horizon in any direction, only faint mountains to the west. The grass within the camp is trampled permanently flat, or trampled dead and in the process of regrowing, a statement as to how long the organization had stayed reclusive in this location. There are about twenty tents set up and scattered about. Half of them sustain the identity of medical rooms like that Hudson resided in, the other half are vacant. 

"Those ten are for other cars we have that don't need medical attention. You'll be moving into them. when we’ve got an overflow, they go into the medical tents regardless of if they are harmed."

Kenneth enjoys speaking, and his brown paint job turned out to assimilate well with the natural surroundings. Doc noticed not the meaning of Kenneth’s words or his paint job. He was too busy keeping going forward straight down the row of impromptu structures. 

"We'd love to be able to take in more, but them humans always on the lookout for people like us. Gotta stay low or give ourselves away and move again."

Hudson tries to nod, and instead of going up and down, only goes down, bumping the soft earth. He frowns, and Kenneth chuckles before apologizing. The conversation ends until they near the end of the row where the Belair from before is waiting. 

"Hello, m' name is Nancy. I see you're up and moving."

Hudson was silent, offering only a look of "obviously." He figured if Kenneth had already known his name, Nancy would too. Kenneth speaks again, slicing into the awkward silence. 

"Nancy here is gonna help you get moving like an average car, back on your wheels properly."

Hudson bit back a rebuttal that he was fine. He certainly was not, he was still trembling occasionally on his wheels and currently settled on the ground to lessen the strain. 

"Almost like a trainer. But not for racing. You won't have to worry about that anymore."

Now Hudson gazes off into nothing at that word. Confusion overwhelms him. He'd not thought of racing the whole of however long he was here in the camp. Now the idea of not racing sent a wave of relief through him, but also a deep sadness reminiscent to carrying around a chain tied to an eighty-pound weight. The emotions were contradicting, and he had no explanation for either. 

"Hudson. Buddy, I need you to focus so we can start. Gonna start easy today, k?"

Looking around, Hudson noticed Kenneth at some point had already made his leave. He was alone with Nancy, who was now a few feet away to the side, her baby blue coloring a stark contrast to the green vegetation beneath her. 

He tries to keep his focus on Nancy, so as to not daze off further, and in hopes of denying attempts to process the thoughts rushing his mind. Due to this, he focused wholly on whatever physical work was about to be thrown at him. Today it was simply gaining the ability to roll around, simply up and down at no more than five miles per hour at the length of a street block. A year ago if you told Hudson he would be struggling to hold his weight traveling so slow he would have rammed the accusing car into a wall. That pulls at another string of sadness within him as he works and he still doesn't understand. 

He had to take frequent breaks. Within these breaks, he asks questions. His voice has regained its strength through small talk with Kenneth who seemed able to hold conversation way too long about everything important only to the camp. Thus, Hudson hoped Nancy would be more helpful, starting with how long he's been out. 

"You were out for a couple of months after we brought you in. Took a long time to fix you up with what we have. Since then you've been in and out for another month I'd say about three months."

"Don't recall any of that time."

"You were out for the majority of it. It is scary, not knowing time, but I think you're better off than if you'd been awake for most of it."

Hudson remembers all the operations done on him as a racer, how he was awake for most of them. He tunnels, one memory to the next, and he sees himself in the third person. He watches as his engine is hooked up and disconnected and hoisted out of him. The terror in his eyes at having his primal source of power stripped of him without any ability or right to even say 'no' and then he's back on the track, he's in himself again, a race track. Being pushed on, harder and harder only managing five miles at most and always. You can do more. You can do better. Harder. Harder. 

Hudson didn't realize he had started practice again in the camp. All he knows is his wheels have given out and he's heaving and gagging breakfast onto the prairie ground, and he can't even hear the nice Belair behind him, only the sound of his engine rumbling low and strong, purring to try and calm him and he hates it because it reminds him somehow instead of when he was without it. Without his engine, five miles at most on the track and the memories won't leave. 

He doesn't remember the next hour of that day after his panic. 

-

The meals are different every day. Hudson had been going through weeks now of gambling with food. Some days whatever sustenance the camp has in stock is delicious, and almost just as delicious as premium oil, other days it tastes more like oil diluted with muddy water. 

There are currently five other vehicles also taking refugee within the camp. They speak regularly, and often congregate outside of physical training and what therapy there is. All five of them have come from ordinary owners who would neglect them. Hudson was the only racer. The multitude of stories the others shared seemed to hold no candle to his own. He wanted no pity for his past from these vehicles his same age, but he also did not wish to impart further fear on them with his tales, so he remained largely sullen and quiet. 

There's a nice Oldsmobile, who often tries to reach out to Hudson. He tries to instead pull in Hudson with words of encouragement, or questions on any goals he has once they're out of hiding. 

The sweet vehicle tries every day, and every day it causes Hudson to ponder. By now, rather than brightening his mood, Hudson finds himself further despicable, pondering the point of being in hiding where he can't risk anything, can't permit anything of himself. He instead finds himself entertaining the thought that at least in racing he can win and earn trophies despite all the oppression. It's extremely backward thinking, and he recognizes that. Still, he tells no one of these thoughts, for he already agreed to continue staying in hiding, and should he decide to break that promise, he can't go about foiling his own plans. 

So he listens to the Oldsmobile and his happy drama and ponders at his own deprecating future while at the same time he wonders how this car beside him can seem so inexplicably happy. 

-

There's nothing to do here, and Hudson can't help his growing stir crazy. Every night as he lays in his tent, wide awake due to never quite adjusting to waking in the day, he stares out into the prairie, black grass highlighted with sharp silver from the moon. They are far from any form of civilization, for the sky is able to display hundreds of stars and constellations and cloudy clusters of light. The world could be traversed easy in this night light, and every other night, Doc ponders taking off, only for a few hours, just to drive. 

This thought process grows every day as he regains more and more of his speed through training. 

In fact, they've managed to bring him up to eighty miles per hour, and are wary of bringing him up higher. They're grateful for the prairie land being quite flat and even grounded, but higher speeds mean father travel from camp, further danger, and that can't be risked. Hudson longs to just test his highest speed after everything, to tap into what he has been taught is his one purpose in life. Going fast. 

Now he is with another vehicle, late evening, under the stars. They are behind the left row of tents, halfway between being side by side and opposing each other in positioning. Hudson does not recognize her model, and can barely remember her name. 

They discuss things. Everything he feels. Everything about the past two days. Everything. She is a rather good listener and seems to hear everything Hudson says, but of course, Hudson keeps his secrets. The closest he has come to revealing his wish to run off and re-enter himself in racing was by expressing his absolute need to push his limits in speed. 

Then she becomes sympathetic and apologetic. Then come the reasoning and excuses. 

"I'm so sorry, but there isn't a highway near enough for you to try that, and besides, you'd get pulled over."

"You sound extremely troubled, and this could perhaps be chalked up to a term known as stir crazy. I would love to help you, but unfortunately letting you test such mechanics would lead you too far away from camp if something went wrong and you broke down."

That was the first time Hudson realized he wouldn't mind being left out there in the prairie to break down, he wouldn't have minded being left outside the racetrack to die. 

That was the first time Hudson knew he had to find some way of getting out of here that wouldn't result in humans or the camp hunting him down and bringing him back. He had to find some semblance of freedom

-

Hudson is meeting the vehicle again, behind the tents on the left. He has learned some things. She genuinely cares about his well-being and is concerned over his willingness to try and escape the camp, and is seriously trying to come up with a middle ground. She believes he is a rather beautiful car. She is extremely kind and will let Doc have fun doing small burnouts and driving freely in the immediate area surrounding the camp. She has temporarily resorted to bringing small treats such as extra oil to try and satiate Hudson to keep him from dashing. 

Right now, she is asking if he's taken up conversing with the other occupants of the camp receiving care. 

He had tried with that Oldsmobile. Tried because he didn't necessarily wish to speak with the car, but the Oldsmobile was incessant in chatting up a storm. He ended up one day, bathing in the sun, warily waiting for his engine to purr in false contentment, breaking and asking a question in response. 

"Where you come from anyway? Traveling? City?"

"Oh, large large city. Ever heard of New York? No? Guess they don't do much racing up there. North East. Very large city, overcrowded, all there is to do is get to know the buddies beside you. You know. Lots of time to chat, humans gave up on stopping it you know."

No, Hudson hadn't known, and his own past was already common knowledge, as well as something he'd rather not go into details about. He rubbed a tire against the tattered grass, trying to concoct a response of some sort. 

"Doesn't that do a hammer on your mileage, always idlin' like that?"

"Oh sure, but I could only imagine how it is for you what with your long races. How many laps were they?"

Just like that, Hudson had been swept into conversation. Looking back now, it wasn't half bad, and he doesn't omit that fact to the lady he's counseling with. Still, it was tiring, and he was well worn through after the conversation with the Oldsmobile. He doesn't omit that fact either. 

That day, he leaves realizing of all things he learned about the camp counselor he still hasn't gotten her name. 

-

They're planning a way to free him. Luckily they are amazing at listening here, much more than any human he'd ever encountered beforehand. Hudson is able to recognize that, and despite how much he finds himself bored within this open prairie, it's always a comfort to know they have his best interest in mind, or at least, the best compromise they can concoct. 

Right now though, the whole plan seems like hell. They haven't explicitly kept him on any pain killers, only some medicine to keep him from dipping too far into any potential depression. He'd been sitting squat in this camp long enough for them to take effect, perhaps the main reason he never truly ran off despite how stir crazy he had become. 

Right now though, they have to take him off of them. There is no way they can regularly send someone off on the trip to whatever town they hope to hide Hudson in simply for the delivery of medicine. It was too high risk. 

There was no way whoever becomes Hudson's caretaker could easily get such medicine without becoming a target of suspicion. Especially if they had no need for the medicine themself, and thus no explanation. 

So Hudson sits here, wide awake and utterly alone at ten at night, trying to not stare out into the prairie grass and instead glaring up at the night sky with its millions of stars shining like fresh chrome. He hovers there, sitting on the ground, wheels tucked under him as he purrs and rumbles to try and comfort himself, only to terror himself further. He sits there, reminding himself over and over again, that he has to stay here, he has to wait, they'll find somewhere better for him. He was never told how, or how he'll be given more freedom if he's still in hiding, but he hopes blindly, for he has no better option. Just like how now, he stares at the sky reverently, even as the stars swirl and makes his gas tank roil with sickness, because he knows, if he looks at the prairie, he'll take off. 

He has to wait. 

He was meant for going fast. He was not meant for patience. 

But he has to wait. 

-

He feels horrible. All he can do is ponder getting out of the camp, all he can do is hunch down in on himself and wallow. All he can do is think about going fast, moving, being somewhere where he can wander, even if under the veil of night. All he can do is just go out for a test drive, really push his limits, and then even return to camp. 

It's damn well that he's leaving the camp today. 

It turned out to be for the better that he could never quite adjust to daylight hours after his big wreck, for they were to travel one to two days under the veil of night. Fewer humans and cars alike were on the roads at late hours, especially out on road trips. According to the camp director, the tow truck Hudson faintly recognizes, they could make the journey in one day, but since this would be Hudson's first time driving in over a couple of months, they didn't want to push him, no matter how excited he felt. 

And Hudson was more than excited, he was ecstatic and apprehensive in all the right ways. Only a small nibbling in the back of his mind warned him off the dangers he still faced, how he could still be rediscovered. 

Now he stares at the open freedom the prairie taunted him with. It's open layout and grass sweeping in the breeze like the waves in the ocean. He stands on all for wheels sturdy and certain with a soft smile. Even if he had to go into hiding once again, he's got multiple days of full travel, cruising land and seeing new sights and speeding by the occasional drab scenery on freeways. 

He would once again feel the cold, all-enveloping of wind as he cut through it with power trimming through all of him, his engine under his control he would watch a beautifully crafted sunset in a new setting for at least three days, just like when he was on the road for racing, not cooped up in a tent at a camp or a pen in a warehouse with minimal air draft. He'd feel real asphalt and the occasional dirt under his tires, stones kicking against his undercarriage and wheel wells. 

He'd be driving, traveling, pushing the speed limit, everything a car was meant to do. 


	2. Chapter 2

He's exhausted, and more than worn out, and about dragging himself along the floor. But he's happier than he's ever remembered before. It's a whole other experience, feeling the wind surround him while at the same time he gets to experience all scenery unfiltered and with his own eyes. He's had a taste of freedom, and that is more than enough for him. He traveled on his own wheels, with no human beside him or within him, not on a trailer, but on his own wheels with the Ford from the camp accompanying him. 

It was most definitely a long and arduous journey. But it was also more than worth the struggles. 

Now they are nearing upon a town only two miles away, and they weren't kidding on claiming it is small. They're in a desert dusted in yellow to red, in a valley surrounded more by red jagged cliffs than the typically expected rolling hills. Still, nothing obstructs Hudson's view far in front of him, and yet he still can't see the town, only the faintest small orb of light glowing against the night sky morphing into morning. 

The Ford, Dean, slows down to the right edge of the road, and Hudson follows suit, glad for a rest in his wheels, only barely registering the heat in his brakes running sore from the long travels. Hudson had been under the impression that they would head into town, instead, Dean was now completely pulling off the road and turning around back the way they came. Hudson simply followed, taking the cue that something so random from his quiet companion of rigor and schedule must then have a reason. 

Turning around a few feet off the road in the dirt, Hudson faces a large sign they had just passed by, large as two cars long and two cars tall, perhaps a billboard to advertise the small town only a mile or so down the road. Route 66, they were driving on. In addition to noticing the sign, Hudson notices the vehicle hiding behind it, cast in shadows from the moonlight. 

This is who they approach, and as they edge closer, the stranger also repositions to face Hudson and Dean. The hood of the stranger pokes out of the shadow lain by the Billboard, and upon closer inspection, it was obvious to Hudson this car’s occupation in life. This stranger was a Mercury Coupe, with a grilled mustache much like the Oldsmobile from back in the camp. He was also gaudied with searchlights, a red and blue small light upon his roof along with small sirens, and two long antennas sprouting out of his trunk. To top the look off, the stranger was shone up in black and white painting, the White doors emblazoned with the word 'sheriff’ and a gold badge. 

"This him, Sheriff." Speaks the Ford. 

"He don' talk?" The sheriff eyes Hudson, who takes defense at perceived quick assuming on the Sheriff's part, setting onto his front tires and raising his rear slightly, imitating the look that of a cat about to pounce. 

"I do talk. I'd like to stay quiet in public."

"You're name?" Responds the Sheriff, ignoring the easy window of opportunity to point out that they were practically alone except for the occasional late-night traveler. 

Hudson stays silent, stays in his challenging position, which the Sheriff smirks at, like either it was cute, or amusing, or just not worth the effort to get upset over. 

"His name is Hud." It's a whisper, the Ford respecting Hudson's wishes to stay on the down-low, no matter how over-excessive it seemed. 

The sheriff's eyes track the lines of Hudson's frame and body before nodding. 

"Hud." The sheriff's voice has a tone of gravel underlying it, fluctuating in the brief conversation from sounding both like the most friendly car on the earth to the most serious car. "Nice to meet you Hud."

It is now that Hudson relaxes his rear axles and speaks equally as low. "Nice to meet you."

After, the Ford and the Sheriff lead the conversation away from Hudson, clearly excluding him to discuss what measures and lengths must be taken to keep him safe from humans and being recaptured. Hudson doesn't mind, he's here, in his new home. He's tired, he wishes to take in the scenery with sleep bleary eyes. He lowers to the ground, safely hidden by oncoming traffic by the wooden billboard. 

He's too exhausted to decipher what he likes about the scenery, about the town's they've last seen, about the Sheriff. He dozes. 

-

Hudson is brought back to full alertness by the Ford prodding him with a tire. The Ford is also exhausted but speaks before Hudson can even question the vehicle. 

"No, can't rest here. Don't want to be spotted. I'll stop a few towns over for a break. Nonetheless, you're on your own now, though you always have been." The Ford sighed, trying to figure out the point he was trying to communicate. "This is the best we can do, I hope you can find joy and contentment some near time in the future."

It was a nice comfort to Hudson that he was able to physically show he was listening while his mind truly still clawed to drag him back into partial sleep. He sighed, and they hit tires together as they spun, a car handshake, and then the Ford pulled out onto the road, heading away from Hudson. Hudson felt a thick as honey sadness tug at his subconscious. He wouldn't be allowed to return the camp, nor speak of it for many years, except to this sheriff pulling up beside him. He had to keep secret a boring haven, but haven nonetheless, that had saved him from death. 

Now he follows the Sheriff the rest of the short mile into town, the glow of light growing until finally, Hudson could make out a three street town with a neon cluttered Main Street. Then they're in town, and Hudson is overwhelmed. He has to fight to not halt as his vision swims, his head pounds. He's not used to artificial light after so many months of only the sun and moon. It's overwhelming, and instead of taking in this small town, he keeps his eyes to the ground as much as possible. Still, a loud clatter causes him to near jump, and his eyes shoot up to find the source. A space-themed turquoise and white gas station, being handled by a clumsy car in an orange coloring directly contrasting the building. It amazes Hudson how lively this town is in such early hours of morning despite its small size. Hudson stares down at the black paved road again, grateful for its sturdiness. 

When he chances looking up again, they're at the end of the street. In front of them is a large, somewhat ornate red brick building. The ceiling and windows are framed in cream-colored wood. There are no doors for humans. This building, a firehouse, and supposedly the court and police station all in one, was built for, and only ever owned by, cars. That fact alone is enough to stand as a testament to the safety of this town, and it makes itself clear to Hudson. 

This is the building they enter. 

-

"Sorry bout you stayin' in here all day long. Feel free to join me at night." Here, being the Town Halls basement. It would be truly deprecating if not for its style. It was taken care of well, lined with wood paneling on the walls, cement floor with carpets strewn about. There's a small table in the far right to be talked over, low enough to comfortably hold a plate of food for cars not consisting of the regular oil. Nearer the ceiling are multiple rectangular yet just as ornately framed windows, tinted so as to not allow any passerby to look within. The lighting is a simple overhead, but still not bare. It emanates a soft amber glow. 

"It's... Cozy here." Because it really was. It wasn't bland, but it wasn't great. It was cozy, comfortable to what's needed. 

"Would you like some books? Any interests?"

Hudson ponders, knowing he may very well spend little time in here while awake. If night was when he could leave, and he's already adjusted to the nocturnal life, he saw no reason to change. Still, there could be the occasional nightmare or restless day. So he ponders, if he had to do anything if he wants to learn something important and useful, what would it be. The answer comes to him easily as he remembers again why he is still alive. 

"... Fixing cars."

"That's, ... Understandable, of course. I'll find a way." The Sheriff gives Hudson a smile, one that isn't quite sad but isn't quite just happy either. Hudson doesn't know if this lack of pity is good, or if it means the Sheriff doesn't understand the multitude of what he's been through. Either way, Hudson never appreciated pity. 

There's an awkward silence. Neither are sure what to do. They're cars on the edge of a cliff, on the surface, on steady ground, staying professional, like the camp, teetering off into unknown consequences and gratifying moments is pushing the amicableness, creating friendship. Finally, Hudson makes a move, only to turn around and make his way to the sleeping mat without any words, his message clear as a hawks cry. 

Still, as Hudson truly settles in, before leaving the sheriff speaks. "Good night, or should I say good morning?"

The humor isn't lost on Hudson, who also in good manner replies. "Yes, good morning."

-

The next night, Hudson creeps through the town hall, up the ramp out of the basement, through the somewhat fanciful courtroom, and froze halfway to the exit. He'd heard a creak on the wood behind him, from the door leading behind the courtroom, and he pursed his lips, trying to silence his breathing, wishing the building wasn't graced with so many windows that shone moonlight on him. He tried to stay perfectly immobile, to draw attention away from himself, or at least to be perceived as asleep. 

Still, the creaking continues, slow, dragged out and it’s as horrid sounding as a fork scratching a porcelain plate. The creaking grows nearer and nearer, terrifying in its slow progression, like another creature, a human that's hunting. 

Finally, the being sounds to be beside Hudson, and that's when he feels it, a nudge against his fender, cold metal on cold metal. Still, Hudson hesitates before opening his eyes and peering at whoever joined him. 

Beside him, doe-eyed and looking halfway between apologetic and curious, was a large fire truck. 

Immediately, Hudson chastises himself. Of course, there would be a firefighter here. This is a building of multi-purpose, even graced with a bell to draw attention and claim that a fire truck is about to exit. And with that came embarrassment, and with a scowl, he looks up at the red engine before him. 

"No one hears about this, got me?"

The truck blinks, nods and gives Hudson a proper once over. Finally, he smiles softly, eyes somehow seeming even larger, he carried no hint of intimidation. After a moment's hesitation, Hudson offers up his own smile. 

-

"What's the fire truck’s name?" This is how Hudson greets the Sheriff. 

"Glad to see you made it out of town fine." The Sheriff doesn't glance in Hudson's direction, even seeming to be deliberately avoiding looking at the car. 

"No one drives behind the buildings. Guess them ain't roads then. You don't mind, do you?"

Yes, the sheriff did mind, because it was his duty to enforce all laws within the city. At the same time though, he didn't mind, because more importantly this information alone allows him to realize that Hudson is a clever thinker, and that could more than help them in the future. Sheriff is dragged out of his musings by Hudson's strong, confident-sounding voice. 

"So, the fire truck?" The so is lazily drawn out, as if Hudson doesn't truly care despite his insistence for knowledge. 

Sheriff coughs. "Ah, right, no I don't mind as to you driving off-road. And the truck. Ain't no one know his name. He simply showed up, made himself useful with what he is. Earned his place. Don't talk often either. Just call ‘im Red."

Hudson nods, and neither speak. Instead Hudson processes. He observed the land and the cliffs, wondering what cut into them so, these valleys like if a human had a cookie-cutter. He pondered the age within these towering rocks. His eyes scanned the horizon, finally landing on the sheriff beside him. 

"How bout you? You got a name?"

"Was always just Sheriff long as I can remember."

Sheriff catches Hudson's eyes, questioning. 

"Hudson Arin." Hudson falters, narrows his gaze before opening up about himself a little more. "Arin probably comes first, just used to Hudson now."

"Do you prefer it?" Asks Sheriff. 

"What?"

"Do you prefer Hudson?"

It was so random all Hudson could do was answer yes without giving it a thought.

-

Hudson arrives at the sign outside of town with an expression showing skepticism. He pulls up beside Sheriff, staring at the vehicle, realizing how the other is taller than him by an inch or two. 

"You seriously do this every night?"

"Ain't no other Sheriff. Gotta protect my town."

"Your town."

"Everyone here has stories, it's a car town for a reason. I pride myself on taking it in and keeping it safe."

Hudson nods and looks out over the land once more. "Tell me about the history."

"Was that an order?"

Hudson looks to Sheriff, holds his gaze steady. "Yes. Problem?"

"Not very friendly. And, I'm the sheriff."

"So we are looking to be friends?"

Now Sheriff also looks at Hudson, and they stare at each other, neither daring to look away. A couple of moment's past, icy blue eyes cutting into violet eyes. Finally, Sheriff looks away, observing the road in front of him instead

"I don't know. You're mighty feisty for a-"

"Racer? Got me in lots a trouble. No matter how I think though, I always refuse to bow down."

Sheriff nods, chancing a glance to the blue Hudson Hornet beside him. "Respectable."

"The history?"

"Ah, yes."

Hudson listens, this tale of a small town started in the thirties along Route 66, a Route created for humans to get from the East to the West California coast. Like the Oregon trail but now in cars, in a trip taking only one to two weeks long. And on this new Route created for humans and strung with towns meant duly to serve and favor humans, Radiator Springs was created by one steam car known as Stanley. A town meant to care for the cars as they dared this long journey by order of their humans. A blue jays egg in a nest of Magpie, and so business swarmed, for humans could only push their cars so far. 

Every business was and still is run by cars, and as of such, they had no protection aided by the government. But it's cause was pure, and soon, Sheriff took up post in the town of his own will, and within the next few years, Red had appeared. Because of all this, Sheriff thinks it only right that this town should now move forward, take in a car in need and offer undying protection. 

"Undying protection?" 

Sheriff makes a short noise, like the start of a choke swallowed down fast. As if such a fact weren't meant to be revealed. "Yes."

"... Any more about the history?"

"Yes, if you wish to go into details."

"We've all night, don't we?"

"Suppose so."

And as Hudson listened, he took into account how content he already was. Yes, he still mostly stayed still come night, yes, he was hidden by a giant billboard as if he were not meant to be free. Still, it was warm, the night languid and relaxing, as was the night before. Small lightning bugs sparsely decorated the air, yellow light contrasting against the blue sky of the midnight hour, and Hudson remembers how grateful he is and was in the camp to be allowed to see the night sky in all it's beauty, to pick out the milky way and watch were clustered stars start to fade away to the milky blue hue. Where instead of hearing the hushed sobs and quiet cries of terror and sadness from other cars cooped up in a warehouse, he instead listens to the calming, somewhat throaty and friendly voice of Sheriff, always full of controlled emotion. 

He was happy.

-

"You seriously just sit out here every night for hours?"

"Until a hot rodder comes along."

"Don't you ever.. Grow bored?"

"Nope. Most relaxed here. Usually doze off."

"I've noticed."

Sheriff squints, eyeing the Hornet beside him. "I feel like we'd get along better with less of your sarcasm."

"I ain't insulting you, am I?"

"And if you were less smart."

The Hornet grub grins, and Sheriff wants to be annoyed. However, as with the first two nights with his new companion, he instead often finds himself some hodgepodge of feeling amazed and confused. When he was reached out to, asked if he could hide and protect a car on the run, he expected some docile and shy creature scared of pushing limits. Instead, he got Hudson Arin Hornet, some male who seemed to take pleasure in pushing limits, reveling in the fact that he didn't suffer from punishment after. This left Sheriff totally unprepared, and he was often scrambling to carry a conversation with the car. 

"So," starts Sheriff, changing the topic. "What made you a better racer than the rest?"

"I could-I can turn real good. More control. Also lot more durable. Less maintenance. But also prestige."

"Prestige?" Sheriff Asks, ignoring the hiccup on turning. He doesn't want to dig in on the rough parts of racing with Hudson yet. He is the one keeping Hudson safe, but that doesn't guarantee trust from the Hornet, Sheriff is certain. 

"Yes, prestige. Everyone out there running on them V8s. I'm a nice 6 cylinder fast as them. Lots of prestige and surprise. Was nice."

Sheriff nods as if he understands the importance of cylinders. He doesn't, but he can see the importance it has in the racing world, and it's better to acknowledge that value then get stuck on info he doubts he'll ever need to understand in his career. 

Now it's Hudson who changes the topic. "You got them books yet, Sheriff?"

"Hm? Ah, that reminds me. Got a small library one town over that acts more like a shop than a lending library. But I'll have to be out of town."

Hudson doesn't respond. He just stares out into nothing. 

"You'll be fine staying here alone with Red?"

"Suppose it's that or no books."

"Besides," Sheriff agrees. "I wouldn't suggest staying out at night come the weekend. Too many tourists."

Hudson gives a huff, and Sheriff frowns. It pains him greatly that Hudson can't simply acclimate to town in open daylight, that Hudson has to hide or risk being found and potentially recaptured. He can see how it affects Hudson already, come late hours into the night. Hudson will fidget, rest on his rear, rest on his front tires, turn his tires back and forth, digging into the dirt and sand mix that is the desert. 

A few moments have passed, Sheriff watching the car beside him. He wasn't quite sure he liked Hudson, not yet, but he couldn't deny that Hudson was inexplicably intriguing. 

"No one much knew the sound of your voice in racing, eh?"

"Hmm?" Hudson drags his eyes lazily over to Sheriff, once again as if not taking the question seriously, pondering it languidly. "Guess not. Just a handful of cars I raced alongside. Weren't meant to talk much."

Sheriff nods. "And that blue. It stock?"

"Sure. What're you getting at Sheriff?"

"Well, ain't no one knowing your voice, and being stock in color says how much you have to hide. Just a few years, enough for your type of breed to be a dime a dozen and a thing of the past. Say, three years or so."

Sheriff watches Hudson's reaction before chuckling at how the ex-racer first expressed hope, then anger, then a mix of the two. Sheriff steps in. 

"Did I offend you?"

Hudson freezes, thinking. "Yeah, what makes you think I'll be obsolete so fast?"

Sheriff shrugs. "Would you rather hide longer?"

This time Sheriff laughs at Docs returning visible confusion. 

_

Sheriff isn't laughing, nor is he even smiling. He is searching. Because Hudson hasn't shown up, and it's an hour past their usual meet up. Reasonably, logically, Sheriff checks the Town Hall first. Perhaps Hudson was simply sleeping in. 

The Town Hall is lowly lit with the cool blue lighting of the moon. The wood flooring creaks with about twenty years of age. Sheriff creeps through the building, past the courtroom, down into the basement, and is appalled to find Hudson absent from his sleeping quarters. It is now that Sheriff begins to worry, anxiety creeping into every nut and bolt that holds him together. 

So he creeps back through the courtroom, out of the building, and instead takes to opening the garage door. It groans loudly with cheap metal, and Sheriff is both grateful and regretful that it wakes up Red. He enters the garage, facing the fire engine, who seems somewhat grumpy but still open-minded. Any situation where he is wakened by Sheriff must be important. 

"Have you seen Hudson drive off?" Asks Sheriff, voice low so that any of the leftover mingling tourists on Main Street don't overhear. 

Red frowns then nods. 

"Did you see him get into any trouble?"

Red shakes his head in dismissal. Instead, he points forward with his tire, rolls forward a couple inches, then leans to his left. Sheriff gives his best guess. 

"Left at the light?"

Red nods, and with a thanks tossed into the air, Sheriff begins to reverse out of the garage. Red begins to follow, though is almost immediately halted by Sheriff's words. 

"Sorry Red, but won't it look a little suspicious, me and you with no public emergency?"

Red takes no offense and instead reverses with a soft smile and nods in goodnight before shutting his garage door. 

Now Sheriff heads down Main Street, and at the singular intersection halfway down, makes a left turn out of town and back into the desert. Somewhere in his mind he briefly ponders if Hudson has found Willys Bute, the local race track. He has not told Hudson about the race track at the end of this dirt road. 

However, that's not where he finds Hudson. Instead, he discovers Hudson halfway to the race track, far off the road and in the middle of the wild desert, surrounded by dry shrubbery. He calls out Hudson's name, recognizing the slight tremble the car seems to have about him. 

When Hudson doesn't respond, Sheriff instead slowly approaches the vehicle at an angle, so as to be visible without coming off as too direct. It is as he nears that he hears the low rumble of Hudson's engine, sees the wild look in Hudson's eyes, pupils shrunk tiny. Because of this, Sheriff halts. This is the car he expected when he agreed to take someone in, and yet, Sheriff realizes he has close to no idea on how to handle the situation. 

So he starts by slowly creeping forwards again, stopping when Hudson's eyes lock on him. Like that, they stare at each other, and finally, Hudson speaks. 

"Make it stop."

Sheriff blinks and quirks his windshield. "Make, make what stop?"

Hudson only stares at his own hood, and Sheriff understands. He understands and the idea of a car being fearful of their own purring fills him with great sadness. So much so that he starts to reverse, feeling also that he is in way over his head. But then Hudson makes eye contact with him again, looking only more fearful, and Sheriff knows he can't leave. So Sheriff approaches the situation the only way he knows how to, analytically. 

First, he notes Hudson's uneven breathing, so he slowly pulls up beside Hudson, just barely not touching. Tells Hudson to focus on his breathing, to copy it. He tells Hudson it's the only way to stop the purring, he encourages Hudson and goads him along. They sit together like that for the better half of an hour, and eventually, Sheriff is ready to go retrieve Red for help. Just as he prepares an excuse for leaving, Hudson calms, and Sheriff can't help his relief. He's stressed simply trying to help the Hornet, he could only imagine how the night had felt for the car next to him. 

It takes a few moments more before Hudson can breathe consistently, another for the purring to silence, and Hudson sinks to the ground, rusty dust rising up around and coating his chrome trims. 

They sit in silence, Sheriff occasionally glancing at Hudson to check-in. Hudson simply keeps starting out onto the ground, eyes lidded, dead silent, breath a whisper. 

Finally, Sheriff speaks. "You… Your alright?"

Hudson blinks, jumps as if in surprise at Sheriff's presence before calming again. "Yeah."

Sheriff squints, pondering how far he should push for information. Finally, he asks. "What caused it?"

Hudson purses his lips, tenses on his axles and leans ever so slightly away from Sheriff, and Sheriff regrets asking. Then, Hudson answers. 

"I- I don't know. Maybe it was just all the lights finally getting to me. All the lights but still dark reminded me of large cities and them crowded streets."

Sheriff nods, though he doesn't quite understand. "I thought you were driving behind buildings?"

"I wanted to see the city."

-

"Hey, follow me. Got something to show you."

Hudson pauses, eyeing Sheriff warily, then forcing himself to relax as he reminds himself that Sheriff just helped him greatly. Still, he questions. "Don't you have to hold post at the sign?"

"I can make exceptions. Now, follow me."

Hudson resists the urge to glare at the order, and instead follows Sheriff back onto the dirt road, around each dry bush and desert plant. They travel in a comfortable silence, Hudson close behind Sheriff, and almost chuckling at the fact that the car in front of him has Sheriff clearly printed across his trunk. Eventually, Sheriff veers off the road again, to the right, and Hudson follows, eyes catching sight of a large rock formation like that of a trophy wing. It is a deep purple in the night sky. Sheriff halts before a steep incline, and Hudson pulls up beside him, taking in the view before them. 

Down below the incline was a decent sized dirt race track, encircling the rock formation with one tossed turn and one sharp turn. 

Thoughts flood Hudson's mind. Why is he brought here? Do races run by humans occur here too? That doesn't fit in with the safe and protective theme of this town, but if it is a race run purely by cars, wouldn't racing show off how you're a valuable specimen to be captured and stolen? Thoughts like these take over Hudson's mind, cut into by a question of Sheriff's own. 

"You been getting restless already out at the sign with me?"

Hudson stares at Sheriff, trying desperately to keep his wild thoughts unnoticeable. Hudson nods. 

"Down there, we do local races, every Saturday from morning till afternoon. No humans allowed, which they don't ever like."

Hudson frowns, staring at one spot on the ground to another rushed before asking. "How do you keep' em out then?"

"Easy. The desert is our friend, down by that left side of the track, you fall off and end up in a patch of cacti. Far across that rise on the turn, no Human can steal a car from there. That leaves little less than half the track. That we can fill up with rows of spectating cars, and with me and Red far enough away, we can see humans coming from a mile away."

Hudson nods in awe now, thoughts and questions mostly saturated, and upon further inspection he sees that yes, all that Sheriff claimed was true. This race track was a safe place for cars wanting to have fun. 

"You can give it a spin whenever. Ain't no one out here at night."

Now the mesmerizing facade is shattered, Hudson can't control how he hunkers down on himself, stares warily at that sharp turn above the cacti. He remembers what caused his horrific crash at his last race, he's more than terrified of recreating it in a town that doesn't seem to have a car mechanic. He doesn't even care that his fear is on open display to the Sheriff next to him. 

"Turning caused the crash, eh?"

Hudson nods, staring still as if it were a black hole, a void sucking and drawing him in. His breathing is starting to pick up again, and that's when Sheriff speaks if only sounding a little rushed himself. 

"You know, they told me you were at a beach. Lots of risks there, risks that you won't find here. No pocket of sand not quite as densely packed, no driftwood, ain't no hundreds of humans cheering and sneering at you. Lot safer here, 'm sure you'd do just fine."

And Hudson calms, instead of staring wide-eyed he squints as he does when deep in thought, finding truth in Sheriff's words. He nods nearly unperceivably. Yes, there's much less risk here, and besides, he'd been racing for nearly four entire years. That's hundreds of perfected turns versus one bad mistake. The chances of such a catastrophe being recreated were rather low so long as he kept a clear head. 

But, of course, he knows his mind and his angry emotional tendencies. Instead, he reverses somewhat, and Sheriff gets the message, following. 

"Not tonight, not yet."

And Sheriff nods, nothing more needing to be said, no judgment given, and Hudson is more than appreciative. And he can't wait for the day he trusts himself to try out that track, sure that Sheriff will still be there, cheering him on purely out of companionship, not out of needing him to win money. He is more than happy to return to the sign with Sheriff, for even though he sits still for hours on end, its with a vehicle more than willing to talk through the night. It's with a vehicle that's willing to put up with his sarcasm and come look for him the moment he's missing. 

And as they drive behind Main Street, Hudson glimpses through between buildings, into the nightlife bustling only an hour beforehand, and he won't deny that he doesn't wish to partake in that world, but he also knows is more than content, almost happy even, with the small, safe world he has now. 


End file.
